


Last Breath

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Blood Mage no Seisen | Dragon Age: Dawn of the Seeker, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Fluff on authors part (how did that get in there?), Anonymous Sex, Canon Relationships, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, F/M, Gen, In-between Canon, M/M, Multi, Non-Canon Relationship, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Punishment, Sexual Roleplay, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-21 17:18:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3700658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Divine Justinia V is holding her last salon of the season, and Cassandra has been invited.  Despite her reluctance, she attends... and has quite the experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snarry_splitpea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarry_splitpea/gifts).



> You gorgeous thing, thank you so much for allowing me to use your works 'Meets and Exceeds Expectations: the Ben-Hasserath Reports' and 'Nouveau Riche: Wolf of Kirkwall Gentry' as jumping off points for some of the fashion elements in this work. I see your beautiful herringbone coat and gorgeous green dress, and raise you a hooped petticoat, a corset, and a lovely pair of shoes. x

 

> “Draw your last breath, my friends.
> 
> Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.
> 
> Rest at the Maker’s Right Hand
> 
> and be forgiven.”
> 
>  -- Canticle of Trials, 1:16

 

“This is ri--oof--diculous”

“Cassandra,” Leliana purrs, wrapping the laces over her hands again, planting a knee in the small of the taller woman’s back and waiting for a moment before pulling again, “breathe out.”

“It pinches.  And I feel like I can't breathe.”

Leilani tightens the laces again, “Think of it as another form of armour.  Social armour.  And if you pass out… well, you’ll get out of attending the whole salon, at least.” She pulls again on the laces, and the bones within the corset cut more sharply into Cassandra’s waist.  She winces, holding a hand against her stomach, tan against the soft halla leather.  Leliana ties the laces once, then again, sliding the extra cord through the tightness of the bindings.  Cassandra looks across at the mirror and scarcely recognises herself - the new milk colour of the chemise she wears almost blending with the bone colour of the corset.  Her breasts heave with every intake of breath, and her waist and hips have been formed into a most wanton curvature by the restrictive garment encircling them.  Her legs feel bare and cold by comparison underneath the wispy short skirt of the chemise.  She purses her lips, looking over her shoulder at Leliana, and asks, “Does the Most Holy really want me there?”

“Yes, Cassandra.  We’ve been over this already.  It is important to her; this is the final salon she will give for the season - the last before we must leave for the Temple.  After that,” she shrugs, and turns sad blue eyes back to Cassandra from the many garments on hangers and laid on small shelves, “who knows?  But all this talk is not getting you dressed.”

Cassandra sighs and turns around.  Leliana leans into a wardrobe to retrieve an enormous cloth circle, the colour of bone to match the corset.  She beckons Cassandra away from the wall, and says “Raise your arms.”  

 

As Cassandra raises her arms over her head, Leliana steps up onto a waiting stool, her small foot plunging into the velvet cushion.  She raises the circle over Cassandra’s arms, and pulls it down over her body.  It draws out as she pulls, becoming a hooped petticoat, made of Antivan lace.  The waist catches on Cassandra’s breasts, and she notices that the petticoat is decorated with tiny beads of black and blue, which catch the light dramatically against the off-white of the lace.  She wonders to herself if that is usual, for an item of clothing which will not be seen to be decorated, but resists asking, since it will only betray her ignorance about such things still further.  Leliana steps off the stool and back onto the floor, where she pulls the waist of the petticoat down further and laces it in the back.  “You can put your arms down now,” she tells Cassandra, and the Seeker hears the smile in her voice.  “I left Nevarra to get away from this kind of thing,” she mutters under her breath, and Leliana laughs.  “That wasn’t the reason you left Nevarra, and you know it. Oh, I do hope you’ll like the dress.  I… well, I had it made especially for you.”

 

Despite her discomfort, Cassandra’s curiosity is piqued, and she half-turns again.  The corset is beginning to send a sweet, slow ache through her abdomen, and she finds she must turn her whole body rather than twist at the waist.  She scowls, and Leliana sees her looking and tells her to turn around again, smiling as she does.  Cassandra fidgets, wondering what the dress will be like. “All this and having to talk to Orlesians,” she sulks quietly, but Leliana doesn’t hear her.  Cassandra sighs, and then Leliana is smiling at her elbow, and she murmurs, “I had these made for you too.”  She holds out a pair of the most beautiful shoes Cassandra has ever seen; blue-black satin which gleams darkly against tiny seed-pearls stitched into the vamp, which is cut low.  Cassandra leans more closely, sees that the supple leather the shoe has been made from  has been dyed the same shade as the cloth it is covered with.  The pearls are also not the only decorations stitched into the shoe - beads of jet and sapphire glimmer from the toe box.  The heel is low, as the Orlesian style dictates, and it is thickly decorated with seed-pearls.  The whole effect is one of understated opulence, and Leliana laughs and says “Even if the rest of you is writhing in pain, at least your feet will be comfortable.  And beautiful.”  She giggles, and crouches before Cassandra, lifting the petticoat up slightly to reveal her bare feet.  Cassandra lifts her feet one at a time and Leliana slides the shoes on - and she is right, not only are they gorgeous, they feel almost like a second skin, perfectly arched and weighted.  The Seeker smiles down at the Nightingale and asks, “Now, what did I do to deserve all of this?”

“Oh Cassandra,” Leliana giggles again, and then looks slightly abashed, “You must know I’ve been longing to do this to you for years.  Years!  You are the closest thing to a princess I know, and yet I’ve never seen you play that role.  I’m only too glad to help.”  She grins again.  “Ready for the dress?” Cassandra nods, and laughs a little, then tells Leliana, “As ready as I’m ever likely to get.”  Leliana turns away and skips lightly toward the racks of clothing.

 

There is a rustle, and Leliana appears again, holding a long, silky looking piece of fabric, so dark a blue it is almost black.  She smiles indulgently at Cassandra, and says “Not too much longer now.  Arms out, please?”  Cassandra stretches both arms out, and Leliana smoothes sleeves over her hands, the fabric soft against Cassandra’s skin.  It almost feels weightless, it is so fine, and an involuntary smile rises to her lips.  The dark fabric continues to rise up her arms toward her shoulders, and Leliana steps closer to her until their bodies are almost touching, Leliana’s legs pushing the petticoat out at the back.  Leliana takes one of Cassandra’s hands and folds the end of the sleeve down over it, the pointed cuff perfectly balanced on the edge of her middle knuckle. She repeats this with the other hand, then she steps back and smiles at Cassandra quickly before coming around behind her and beginning to quickly lace the dress.  It seems to Cassandra that rather than lacing her into this dress as she did with the corset, Leliana is simply tying a multitude of ribbons together, beginning at the base of the train.   _At least that will make getting out of it easier_ she thinks to herself.  Cassandra runs her hands down the front of the bodice, admiring the dark gleam of the fabric and the scoop of the neckline, which bares her shoulders. She smiles when she notices the seed-pearls stitched into patterns of flowers and skulls tumbling down the fabric at her hips and onto the train at the back.  The smile grows broader when she thinks of the bow-tying that Leliana has to do, and considers it lucky that her friend is an archer.   _Strong fingers_ , she thinks to herself, and her smirk turns into a grin, which quickly dies at Leliana’s question.

 

“Have you heard from Regalyan?” Leliana asks quietly, seemingly directing the question into the back of Cassandra’s knees.  Cassandra starts involuntarily, and folds her arms, shoulders hunching.  “No,” she answers, and her tone is so abrupt that she feels Leliana’s fingers pause slightly, before they continue their deft movements.  Cassandra sighs heavily and says “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean…”

“Cassandra, you don’t have to apologise.  I’m sorry.  It’s none of my business.”

They are silent.  Leliana continues her lacing, now working up Cassandra’s back.  Cassandra casts her eyes down and sees that she has knotted her fingers into the fabric of the skirt, and forces her hands to relax.  She murmurs quietly to Leliana “I… I don’t know how things stand between us.  When I told him about the Conclave and going to Haven, he insisted he accompany me.  When I told him he should stay with the Circle, _his_ Circle, he scolded me for a Templar, and told me that I needed protecting from my own good intentions.  What kind of High Enchanter does that make him?  That he would leave his charges so readily, when who knows what will happen to the White Spire in his absence?  The rebellion is everywhere now.”  Her nostrils flare slightly in irritation, and her jaw clenches at the memory.  “Leli, you know I love him deeply.  But Maker, he can be such a sulky child sometimes…”  Leliana laughs and tells her, “We all can be, when we don’t get our own way.  ‘Galyan has your best interests at heart, I’m sure.  And I know he loves you too.  Perhaps he needs to find a different way of expressing that love.”  

“You know so much more than me about this kind of thing.  I fear I have lead a woefully sheltered life in some respects.”

Leliana sighs as she completes the last bow, and then holds Cassandra by the shoulders and peers around, smiling at her.  “All the more reason to embrace the experiences that I’m sure the salon will hold for you, chéri.”  

Cassandra frowns, and says “I doubt there will be many new experiences on offer.  It’s just a bunch of stuffy nobles and Chantry bureaucracy, isn’t it?”  She sees Leliana’s mouth quirk strangely, almost as if she is trying not to smile, and her frown deepens in confusion.  “There will certainly be nobles there.  And perhaps some members of the Chantry hierarchy.  But it may be difficult to tell who is who.”  She pauses slightly in front of Cassandra, admiring her handiwork, then looks up.  “It’s a masked salon.”

“Oh.”  She knows Orlais has been gripped by a powerful fascination with the mask over the last few years, but assumed it was another affectation simply for the purposes of the Grand Game.  “Do I have a mask too?”  

“Of course!  It would be most remiss of me otherwise.  One moment while I finish fixing your hair…”  She sighs and says “Not that there is much I can do with it.  Ah well.” And then she is gone again, back to the shelves where she retrieves a long box, from which she removes a mask wrought in blackened lazurite, with a thick pearl-coloured velvet ribbon either side of it.  The mask has been wrought in the shape of a skull, the jawbone absent so that the mask leaves the lower part of her face visible.  The cheekbones are decorated lightly with what looks like engravings of Andraste’s Grace.  It is simple, but very effective, and Cassandra realises she is holding her breath.  She looks quickly at Leliana, her admiration showing clearly on her face, and Leli tells her “You don’t need to thank me.  It’s my pleasure.”  She asks Cassandra to stoop down a little, and holds the mask to her face, wriggling it up a little to get the right position.  “Hold it there, please,” she asks the Seeker, and is gone around to her back again to tie the mask in position.  “One final thing,” Leliana says and Cassandra feels a cold line slide around her throat, which when she looks down turns out to be a simple string of pearls.  She snorts a little when she sees how much of her decolletage is exposed, almost down to the line of her nipples, the lighter cloth of the chemise exposed a tiny amount.  However, she feels absurdly confident behind the mask, and smirks when Leliana enters her field of vision.  Leliana looks at her proudly and then her expression changes slightly, almost looking worried, and she says, “Well?  Take a look!”

 

Cassandra turns, and gasps when she sees her reflection.  Despite her concern that she would look like a confection to be consumed, she looks powerful, alluring but not inviting.  The pale swell of her breasts contrasts severely with the dark dress, and the contrast is made more powerful by the harsh imagery of the repeated skull motif, softened slightly by the flowers.  Overall the effect is forbidding and sensual at the same time; it sends a clear message of look, but do not touch.  She bites her lip and smoothes her hand over her stomach, relishing now the close embrace of the corset underneath, the feel of the satin beneath her fingers, then looks at Leliana and tells her, “I love it.”  Leliana beams at her, positively bursting with happiness, and holds her arms out to embrace Cassandra.  “Remember what I said,” she murmurs over her shoulder, “enjoy this experience.”  They part, and Leliana says, “And now, chéri, you’d better go!  The page will be outside, ready to conduct you.”

Cassandra frowns behind the mask, “I know the way.”

Leliana giggles, and raises an eyebrow.  “I know.  But indulge me - even just for tonight.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Salon du Étoiles in the Grand Cathedral is not a room that Cassandra has much cause to spend time in; indeed, although she had professed to know it’s location, she doubts if she has ever been inside it.  When she enters, as befits the occasion, she is not announced formally.  However, those guests already inside do turn, some with obvious interest and others more casually.  Cassandra glances briefly at the floor, almost overcome with an urge to turn and run, but she makes herself take a deep breath and walk forward slowly.  All of the guests present seem to know each other, so she walks through the middle of the room, smiling and taking a glass from one of the servers who offers a tray to her.  She sips the drink, and tries to stifle a cough - the liquor it contains is sharp with alcohol, but slightly sweet as well, not unpleasant.  She takes another sip and wonders what it is.  As she walks, she looks at the other guests; immediately, a qunari catches her eye, massive even by their standards.  He wears a gorgeous, longline coat; striking for its herringbone pattern alone, the shape of which seem to mimic the sweep of the giant’s horns, but also the way the variety in the shades of grey and types of fabric it is made from seem to almost mimic skin in their presentation.  His mask is plain, a mere breath of sheer fabric over his eyes, almost as if he wants to be recognised.  He is laughing, along with the rest of the group they are in, at something a woman in a pale green dress and mask to match is telling him.  Cassandra can only see her from the back, but even from that view she feels the heat rising to her cheeks at the way the woman is dressed.  As she shifts, miming what looks like a punch or a particularly vigorous sword thrust, Cassandra thinks that she can see right through the fabric of the woman’s dress, and her eyes widen with the realisation that this woman must be completely bare under it.  She turns quickly, a hand to her chest, and hears the woman’s pealing laughter mingling with the qunari’s low bellow.

 

The lights are low, lamps along the walls turned down and emitting a faint golden glow.  Indeed, the chief light source seems to be coming from four short pillars arranged in a square in the middle of the room; they seem to be internally lit, perhaps by some sort of magic.  They too are emitting an orange light, giving the room a warm cast.  Cassandra looks around the room again; there are frescoes painted around the walls, which look as if they depict pastoral and Chantry scenes.  There are also strange alcoves built at intervals into the walls, some as large as a small room, others not much bigger than a wardrobe.  Some have proper doors, some only curtains, and others nothing at all over the entrance.  She is peering into one, wondering at the shackles attached to the wall on the left hand side, when she hears a man’s voice behind her.  “Funny, aren’t they?”  She turns quickly and sees a broad-shouldered blond man, observing her with his arms folded across his chest.  The man chuckles underneath his mask, which displays the visage of a snarling dog. “They took me by surprise when we first came to one of these things too.  I must say, your mask is terrifying.  In a good way!”  He adds the last part quickly, almost as if he is afraid to give offense, and Cassandra smiles and says, “It’s supposed to be, I think.  So is yours - terrifying in a good way, that is.” She gestures behind her at the alcove to cover her awkwardness, “What are those little rooms for?”

“You mean you don’t know?”  The man sidles a little closer to her and Cassandra resists pulling back, narrowing her eyes behind the mask.  The man speaks the common tongue with a high-brow Fereldan accent; his tunic is a deep forest-green velvet, thick and plush, with braid of gold around the shoulders, and golden clasps running the length of it, which tells her that he has money at least; but he wears it like a borrowed garment, almost as if something doesn’t quite sit right.  She can see his eyes sparkle with laughter behind the mask and he tells her, “Well, if you don’t know, I’m certainly not going to tell you.  I’m still not sure what the rules are to this particular game.  Bloody Orlesians and their games.”  He pauses, and his mouth pulls down at the corners quickly, and he asks her “Maker, you’re not Orlesian, are you? Ach!  No! Don’t tell me!”  He covers his ears quickly, until she laughs in a puzzled way, then mimes putting her hands over her mouth.  “I know I’m not supposed to ask, at least.”

“Why…”

“Oh look!  The wife wants me.”  He points to a blonde woman, her hair intricately braided and coiled around her head, her dress a heavy green brocade, who wears a mask seemingly comprised of gilded feathers inlaid with emeralds.  She waves to him again, and the red-haired man she is standing next to grins behind his bird’s wing mask.  The man in the dog mask shrugs to Cassandra and says “Duty calls.  Perhaps I’ll… see you later?”  Without waiting for a response, he strides across the room, leaving Cassandra even more puzzled than before.  However, before she can dwell too much on what the man in the dog mask has told her, she sees Justinia shaking hands with a man and a woman on the other side of the room, and makes a beeline for her; a light in the darkness of confusion.

 

Justinia V is the only person not wearing a mask.  She is clad in the robes of the Divine, but all in white, rather than her ceremonial robes.  She smiles up at the man she is speaking to in rapid Orlesian, says something back to him which makes him laugh, and the woman he is with pout slightly and look away.  She sees Cassandra before either of the other two and elbows her partner, a bald man in a pyrite mask with a long nose, who glances at where she is indicating.  Cassandra thinks they might be related somehow - there is something in the cast of their jaws, and they are of a height with each other, though without seeing their faces she cannot be sure.  He stops mid-sentence and grins hungrily at Cassandra, which makes Justinia look in her direction also.  By this time she is almost upon the small group, and Justinia walks forwards two paces, her arms outstretched, face creasing in a smile.  “My child,” she murmurs, “we are so glad you are come.”

“Most Holy.”  Cassandra takes her proffered hand and tries to bow forward as she is used to, but due to her corset cannot - she bends at the knees instead, and kisses the ring on Justinia’s finger.  “I am glad to be here - though, if I might ask...”

“My child.”  Justinia smiles at her fondly, cutting across the beginning of Cassandra’s question, “We pray tonight will be good to you.  You are so good to us, and it is our dear hope that you enjoy this evening.”  She smiles again, but sadly, and continues “It is the last of my chances to play une saloniére, as soon we will undertake the Conclave, as you know.  So we are glad at least for this last occasion for joy.”  She nods to Cassandra and folds her hands together.  Cassandra expects her to introduce the two Orlesians, who are standing just behind her, but she does not, instead smiling again at Cassandra and stating, “And now, we must be opening the evening.  Ah!”  She claps her hands together, a gesture of almost childish excitement, all the more endearing because of her advanced years, “we cannot wait a moment longer!”  She gestures to two waiting handmaids, who help her to advance to a platform.  As one aids Justinia to mount the three steps, the other winds a clockwork bird, which as it begins to sing, draws the attention of the crowd.  Cassandra turns slightly, the Orlesians forgotten, and tilts her head in the hush as Justinia begins to speak.

 

“My friends, all my dear friends.  As you are all well aware, our time on this earth is but fleeting.  We are given many trials - some which we may manage to overcome, others which we must endure.  It is my purpose in inviting you all here tonight to remind you that this life holds greater things than fear and death.  I challenge you all to not only marvel at perfection, as Therodonies tells us, but to revel in it; how perfectly did the Maker create us, in all our glorious variety.  The Maker gave us form, in order that we might overcome fear and allow ourselves to revel in His presence, through our bodies, which He created.  My friends, I give to you our last salon, our final moment of exaltation before our true trial begins; an end to war, an end to sorrow.  I ask only two things from you all; that during the course of the evening you do not speak your true name, and that you speak to no-one of what you witness here.  If you feel you cannot comply with these requests, go now with our love, and the blessings of Andraste.”

 

Justinia pauses for a moment, but nobody makes for the door.  Cassandra looks around her and sees smiles on many faces.  She notices a man slide a hand up the belly of the woman he is standing next to, tracing fingers under the curve of her breast through her dress; sees a woman pull another into one of the alcoves she has noticed earlier, the door closing quietly behind them.  A man, cowl pulled low over his head, clad all in shades of deepest purple and red, looks to the white-haired elf beside him as Cassandra’s gaze slides past them.  His garb is obviously that of a mage, but one outside of the Circle; there is a leather bracer over one arm which is decorated with raven’s feathers and the teeth of a red lion, criss-crossed with varying weights of chain.  The tail of his ox-blood coloured frock coat is cut low in the back, formed into pencil pleats which glitter with dark amethysts.  The elf, by contrast, is clad all in black; everything from gloves to boots, leggings to jacket in the one shade.  His double breasted jacket is cut short over his hips, descending into a swallows tail at the back. The collar is cut high to cover most of his neck, held together at the side with a dull clasp of everite.  Running up his neck and onto his chin is a pale blue tracery of lines; almost like veins, but they clearly form a pattern and seem to be glowing slightly.  Cassandra frowns a little, wondering what they could be - some kind of unusual vallaslin, perhaps.  Unlike the mage at his side, this elf is almost devoid of any piece of clothing which does not serve a function; even the clasps on his jacket and boots are plain.  However, there has been some nod to the occasion in the fabrics chosen - rich velvet, supple leather and even some kind of short-haired hide are stitched together to make the jacket, the effect inviting a tactile response.  As Cassandra watches them, the human raises the elf’s hand to his mouth and begins to pull at the fingers of his gloves with his teeth.  The elf smirks, but doesn’t look at his companion; instead his luminous grey eyes catch Cassandra’s through his plain everite and silverite mask and they stare at each other for a moment before she looks away, back toward the dais on which Justinia stands.  Still, she cannot shake the elf’s gaze, so daunting the heat in his gaze.  She takes a deep breath to try and still the racing of her heart and the swirling of her mind, and concentrates on what the Most Holy has to say.  

 

“...everywhere.  And of course, my friends, that love is what we are here to celebrate tonight.  So,” she laughs, an old woman’s high cackle, “forgive me if I do not join you all - but know my heart is glad to see so many of you here.  I will take my leave.  The Maker turn his gaze on you… but not tonight.”  She laughs again, and gestures to her handmaids, who begin to aid her down from the dais.  Cassandra walks forward, meaning to speak to Most Holy again, to demand an explanation if necessary, but her way is blocked by a sudden influx of servants, all bearing trays of various sizes.  The lighting also dims significantly, becoming even more concentrated within the four pillars.  Cassandra has almost reached Justinia through the crowd when a collective gasp goes up, and many of those assembled begin to applaud.  As desperate as Cassandra is to reach the Most Holy, she cannot help but be gripped by curiosity, and she turns to see four women ascend the pillars.  Each is clad in diaphanous white fabric, draped seemingly from a single length, similar to the robing that Andraste is often portrayed in.  They carry huge fans of phoenix feathers, also dyed white with tiny crystals scattered over them so that they catch the light like a thousand mirrors.  Music arrives from somewhere above Cassandra, though she cannot see where it comes from - harp and lute with a syncopated but hushed drumbeat behind.  The women begin to move to the rhythm of the drums, and the light through the fabric means that every curve of their bodies is illuminated as they sway and dip hypnotically.  The fronds of the feathers move gently in the breeze that the women make as they move them around their bodies, using them to pull the fabric aside, revealing a leg for a moment, now the side of a breast, now a navel.  Cassandra swallows, her throat dry, and looks around for another drink.  Almost as if in parallel to her thought, there is a servant at her elbow, holding a tray of flutes filled with the same beverage she had had before.  She takes one and nods her thanks, but the man’s eyes are downcast and he turns without acknowledging her.  

 

She glances through the crowd, wondering what the man in the dog mask is making of this, wishing for the first time that she knew someone else here.  She begins walking aimlessly, circling around the pillars in a continually wider arc until she is within sight of the details of the frescoes on the walls.  Looking at them properly in the half-light, she sees that they are unusual in more than one respect.  In many of the depictions, Andraste is shown as a mage, in the tradition of the Imperial Chantry, rather than as a warrior which is what Cassandra is used to seeing.  She is also engaged in a variety of rather erotic activities with her followers; fondling Cathaire and Shartan, one in each hand, Archon Hessarian looking on.  Cassandra turns away from the wall and takes another sip of her drink.  She is beginning to feel quite lost.  When she feels a light touch on her elbow, she starts and turns quickly to see a tall woman, barely dressed by Cassandra’s standards in strips of almost-sheer white, strips of fabric held together seemingly by prayer alone, with a long golden chain looping several times around her neck, standing just behind her.  The woman’s attire and bearing are certainly striking; she draws the eye of many of the guests, and Cassandra cannot help but be wary that this attention now includes her.  The woman smiles in a predatory way at Cassandra, jewels on her cowl catching the light as she lowers her head in greeting.  Cassandra smiles back suspiciously; neither of them speak for a long moment.  Finally, Cassandra, frowning behind her mask says, “Can I help you?”

“Oh, my dear!  You’re Nevarran.  That explains the skulls at least.”  The woman’s lips part again in a smile, but it never reaches her eyes.  Behind the enamelled white mask, they sparkle with what looks to Cassandra like a pitiless mirth.  “I merely saw that you seemed to be at a loss, and wondered if… this might be your first time?”

“My… first time?”  She bristles a little, unwilling to expose weakness so soon into the evening.  She may not be as adept at the Game as Leliana is, but she knows in any battle it’s never a good idea to give too much ground before you have had a chance to wet your steel.  Still, if this woman can confirm what it is that she’s in the middle of, then perhaps it would be worthwhile.  She gives herself up to the chance, and tells the woman, “Yes.  This is the first of Most Holy’s… salons… that I’ve attended.”

“Well, my dear, you’re in for a treat.  However, if you’re not planning on participating, as that mask seems to indicate, you had better lose the lost little lamb look.  Too many wolves around here.”  The woman laughs, rich and throaty, and snaps her teeth twice at Cassandra.  “I should know.”  She laughs again and asks, “If I might offer a second piece of advice?”

All Cassandra can do is nod, still utterly at sea with what all this means, “Nobody knows who you are.  Oh, certainly, they might guess.  But a guess is nothing.  And all the guests here know the rules Most Holy has established.  As Most Holy said, revel in it; use your anonymity.  You may not get another chance.”  She waves her fingers at Cassandra, and the predatory smile is back.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my dear.”  As the woman walks away she says, almost viciously, “ _ Love _ the shoes.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here's where it really starts to get interesting...  
> WARNING: contains animal roleplay and punishment.

For a long time, Cassandra converses with the blond woman with the feather mask who the man in the dog mask had referred to as ‘the wife’.  While all around her, the room seems to be descending rapidly into bacchanal, Cassandra had spotted the woman, seemingly alone, smiling wryly at it all, as if it was just some cosmic jest made for her amusement.  So, she had approached the woman, and struck up a conversation, asking her about her mask.  The woman proves witty, and the conversation flows easily; Cassandra has always admired people who can talk to perfect strangers, as she has never attained the knack for it.  Casually they speak of the various amusements that Val Royeaux offers; various soirees, garden tours, the theatre.  Then the woman’s voice begins to hitch uncertainly and her legs buckle underneath her, eyes shutting tightly.  She grabs blindly for Cassandra’s shoulder, and Cassandra grasps her firmly around the waist, casting around for some kind of assistance, concerned the woman was having some kind of episode.  Then the woman laughs shakily, and calls “Good boy!  Heel!”.  Cassandra is astonished to see a man poke his head out from under her skirts; it is her husband, the man with the dog mask.  He is naked apart from a collar and leash and his mask.  Cassandra’s widened eyes followed the line of the leash and sees that it is wrapped firmly around the woman's hand.  The woman leans down and scratched the man behind the ear, tells him to sit, which he does, panting and grinning up at Cassandra.  The bottom half of his face is slick, his dick hard and leaking precum.  She blinks at him in surprise, and the woman in the feathered mask tells her happily, “This is one of the few places that I can find enthusiastic owners wanting to stud their bitches to a dog of his pedigree.  It’s so hard to find a proper match at home.”  She scratches her ‘dog’ on his head again, looking at him fondly, and he leans against her leg briefly.  Then he crawls across the floor to Cassandra and begins to nose into her skirts.  “Oh, he likes you!” the blonde had exclaimed, and then offered, “Would you like to?  He’s very well trained!”

 

“Uh… perhaps not.”  The man in the dog mask whines and tilts his head, puts a hand on her knee.  Cassandra laughs a little uncertainly, then kneels in front of him, ignoring his hard-on, focussing on his eyes behind the mask.  “It’s not that I don’t think you’re a very… nice dog.  It’s just… not for me.”  He starts forward, nuzzling her on her bare shoulder and whispers, “Are you sure?  I… I’d really like to.”  Then he sits back on his haunches and tilts his head again.  Cassandra is tempted for a moment, then her eyes fall on the leash, and any desire building in her falls away.  She scratches the man behind the ear, and cups his cheek; “You are a good dog.  A very good dog.  But… no.”  She stands again, and asks the woman if she has seen the recent play Aveline, which has been reviewed favourably.  They speak a little while longer about the theatre, and then the dog begins to strain at his leash toward a long table groaning with food, and Cassandra laughs and says, “I see your dog is hungry.”

“He’s always hungry,”  she sighs affectionately.  Then she stoops, and pats the man on his bottom, “Come on then, let’s get you fed.”  They take a few steps forward, and then the woman stops and turns back to Cassandra to say, “If you change your mind, do come and find me.”  Cassandra nods and smiles at her, knowing that she won’t, but as they go, she cannot help feeling a little sad.  She thinks to herself it is pity - that she is wondering why the man goes along with the charade.  Then she bites her lip as she realises it’s regret; already she repents not taking the woman up on her offer.   _I’d really like to,_ he whispers again in her mind, and Cassandra shivers.

 

Another drink and the room is beginning to spin pleasantly.  She has long since stopped watching the dancers, who have shed every scrap of cloth.  She has witnessed acts that she had never even read about; lurid beyond the descriptive capacity of the sort of romance novel author she usually gravitates to.  Men and women not only revelling in pleasure, but wallowing in it, the masks emboldening all.  Two, up against a wall, half-undressed, Andraste dying on the pyre behind them, the woman reciting the Chant of Light as the man plunges into her, grunting. A gorgeous woman, clad in electric blue and silver, hair the colour of flame and beautifully arranged, arguing politics with a portly middle aged man, cum drying across her throat and exposed breasts, over her jewels.  Two men playing chess across another’s naked back while a fourth man, fully dressed, caressed the chess table’s cock; “Don’t jiggle so!” one of the chess players had admonished as she had glided by, and Cassandra couldn’t help but smile and shake her head.  

 

She is idly looking at a fresco, wondering if Maferath really was that well-endowed, when she hears over the general noise a slap and a woman’s squeal of pain.  The alcove she is next to is one of the ones which has a closed door, so Cassandra cannot see inside, and her protective instincts leap inside her so that her hand is on the door before she really thinks about it.  However, just before pushing the door open, her brain engages and she reminds herself that for some, pain is pleasure.  Taking her hand off the door, she cannot resist putting an ear to it instead, and hears another squeal, and then a woman’s muffled voice, begging in tone, though she cannot catch what is said.  A topless woman in a silvery pair of breeches with a sylvan phallus strapped around her hips looks over her shoulder and grins at Cassandra, who casts her eyes down and concentrates, trying to establish if the woman in the alcove is enjoying it or not.  “...Again?” she hears a voice, a man this time, his voice gravelly, but there is no response that Cassandra can hear, and her hand goes back to the doorknob when she hears another slapping noise and an accompanying squeal.  Then a voice whispers something in her ear and she jumps in shock, turning around quickly.  The man who had whispered to her titters quietly, and puts up his hand.  “Let me show you something,” he beckons to her and kneels down next to the wall.  Grinning up at Cassandra, he pokes his little finger into a small hole in the corner of the alcove, runs his finger around the edge.  “Oh,” she breathes, and asks, “is it… made for this?  Will they know?  I just want to check she’s alright…”

 

He raises his eyebrows slightly in surprise behind his half mask, and then the grin becomes knowing, but he nods as Cassandra opens her mouth to further justify herself.  “They won’t know.  Unless you want them to?  I would advise against that, since the door is closed.”  Cassandra nods, and he rises, then holds out a hand to her which she takes as she sinks to her knees in front of him.  He smiles down at her wickedly, still holding her hand, and says, “What a sight you are.”  She frowns, and although she thanks him courteously enough, her tone says very clearly that they are finished their exchange.  He shrugs and makes a discontented face, then turns on his heel and walks off.  Cassandra glowers at his back, then turns to press her eye to the tiny peephole.  She sees that the interior of this particular alcove is almost bare; only a few lumpy pillows and a bare mattress on the floor.  It isn’t much bigger than her first cell in the Chantry when she was brought to the Seekers of Truth.  The woman is on the stone floor, slumped, her head bowed.  She isn’t making any noise, but Cassandra sees from the set of her shoulders and the tension in her neck that she is almost at breaking point.  Her dress is ripped down the seam at the back, exposing tanned flesh, and her auburn hair has cascaded down her back in whorls, out of its careful arrangement.  “Put your hands where I can see them, venak hol,” growls the man’s voice, and Cassandra realises that he must be standing right by the door.  The woman shakes her head.  “Do it,” he commands, and the woman sighs, and puts her hands on the floor next to her.  “Athmek, imekari.  Now, you know what to say…”

The woman raises her head, and her voice is abrupt as she hisses, “Yes, I know what to say! Katoh!  Now get on with it!”  The eagerness underlying her tone makes Cassandra pull back a little bit from the peephole, but she hears the man give a short laugh and say, “Alright.”  She feels his weight shift off the wall, and then the qunari she had seen earlier enters her limited field of vision, his jacket and mask both removed.  He stalks around the woman on the floor who immediately bows her head again. His voice changes dramatically, becoming taut and even gravellier than before.  As such, she only manages to hear him properly as he turns to face the door again, hearing “...others to take your punishment for you.”  He continues to walk slowly around the woman, and Cassandra has to press her face still closer to the wood to hear what he is saying.  “...sentence which will…” is all she manages to catch of the next phrase the qunari utters, and then he has pulled the woman roughly to her feet.  Cassandra sees a shimmer of green fabric and a burst of gold as one of the woman’s earrings catches the light, and then the qunari has pushed her up against the wall, facing him, both hands held over her head.  The woman groans, and Cassandra sees a small cut under her eye and a purpling bruise over one exposed breast.  Then she looks sharply at the qunari and smiles, then spits on his chest.  “I’ll fuck your Qun,” she tells him, “ _and_ fuck it’s demands.”  The qunari grins back at her, and says simply, “No.”  He releases the hold on her wrists suddenly, and she drops to the floor again, to turn begging eyes up at him.  “But… but…” is all she can manage, and he turns his back on her, beginning to undo the elaborate knots in the sash at his waist.  

 

Finally pulling the long sash free, he folds it carefully and kneels to put it on the bed.  “Keep your hands off, basra,” he growls, and Cassandra’s eye goes immediately to the woman, who withdraws her hand from her crotch.  The woman pants a quick breath out, and moves her legs so that she can kneel with her feet underneath herself.  She begins to rock surreptitiously on her heel, her expression softening slightly.  The qunari turns and notices her movements, and shakes his head.  “You’re determined, I’ll give you that, dathrasi.”  He arches an eyebrow at the woman, who looks puzzled and says, “What…” before he scoops her up in one arm and then thrusts her forward onto the stone floor, the side of her face landing on the mattress.  “What?!” she shrieks into it, more in surprise than anything else, as Cassandra can see he’s been quite gentle considering the damage he could have done with a throw like that.  The qunari has moved with cat-like speed, grabbing his neatly folded sash and quickly winding it around the woman’s ankles, then under her hips, and up again to wind over her hands and wrists, so that her whole body weight is now taken on the points of her shoulders and her knees.  Her hips are pulled off the floor by the sash.  For such a complex binding, it is achieved extremely quickly, and although the woman wiggles uncomfortably for a moment and groans, when he bends down and mutters something to her, she stills and nods.  When he shifts his position, Cassandra can see that the woman is even smiling, a faint, beatific smile of… something like relief.  The qunari strokes her hair and then gets up and moves to the door.  Cassandra doesn’t realise what is happening until she hears the door open, and quickly sits back from the peephole, hoping that he is not exiting, and if he is, that he won’t notice her.  

 

But he does, of course he does.  As he shuts the door behind him he says, “Why, hello, petit faucon.  Enjoying the show?” He chuckles and slides down the door, almost as if he is guarding it.  Cassandra bites her lip, then manages to stammer, “I, I’m sorry, I know it was private, but I heard…”

“Let me guess.  You heard my friend give a little screech and you ran to rescue her.  Sweet.”  He looks at her, and he smiles slightly ruefully and asks, “Did you watch longer than you thought you would?”

“I… I didn’t…” Cassandra takes a breath and tries to compose herself, then tells him with a little more strength in her voice, “I didn’t intend to watch as long as I did.  But I’m glad that your…” she struggles to find the right words, “...diversion is mutually beneficial.”

He laughs then, a true laugh straight from the belly, “Not much _benefit_ in it from my point of view.  This kind of tough guy shit is a bit too close to work for me; but hey, I have a hard time not giving people what they ask for.  And I guess I have a gift for it.  Though it is kind of weird for someone to ask me _not_ to fuck them.” He shrugs and continues, almost as an afterthought, “Plus, the night is young; I might find someone more... _diverting_ … later on.”  He rubs his belly and asks her, “You had any of those lark’s tongues?  They smell great.  Haven’t had them since last time I was here.”

“Are you… do you…?”  Cassandra isn’t sure how to proceed - the fact that this giant among qunari is asking her about lark’s tongues seems almost too much of a contrast to bear without asking for context.

He chuckles again, and tells her circumspectly, “I used to work here, in Val Royaux.  But I guess I’m more of a… field agent now.  Sure do miss the cuisine though.”  He sighs and says, “Well, better get back in there.  Nice talking to you, petit faucon.”

She smiles at him, wondering at the nickname, then a memory of Leliana saying “There goes the Falcon,” as she ran through the corridor on some errand one day years ago flashes through her mind.  Surely… but no, how could he know?  She shakes her head in wonderment; what a peculiar night it has been.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Exhibitionist sex, inferred incest

Cassandra walks slowly into the centre of the room, past the still-lit pillars, thinking to herself of how cunningly Leliana has robed her for this evening.  She does not doubt for a moment that the Nightingale knew exactly what she was sending her into - but Cassandra can admit to herself that if Leli had told her what to expect she would have baulked like a badly trained war horse.  Leliana had also known that Cassandra, if she did choose to indulge herself, would prefer to approach than be approached; and so far, either her costume or her demeanor, or perhaps a combination of the two, has armoured her against any unwanted advances.  Certainly, she has had looks, and a comment or two, but no-one has touched her.  Part of her is a little annoyed about this, and another part a little saddened, but mostly she is glad.  She believes herself quite content just to watch, and take amusement from the interactions she observes.  That is, until she sees the white haired elf again, his eyes seeming to blaze across the room at her.  She stops dead in her tracks, everything else forgotten, breath catching in her lungs as his gaze slides away and his eyes go heavy-lidded, mouth opening just a tiny fraction.  When his head begins to tilt back against the wall, and the markings that line his chin and throat begin to burn white, she follows his arm down and sees the human he was with before on his knees in front of him.  The elf pushes the cowl the man is wearing off, revealing tousled dark hair which he takes in his fist, using the leverage to push himself into the man’s mouth with more force.  The man slides his hands up and around the elf’s thighs, clinging to the back of the waist of his open leggings, bracing against the elf’s quickening thrusts.  

 

Cassandra takes a tentative step forward, completely unconscious of the fact that her mouth is hanging open, one hand on her chest, the other pressing into the layers of fabric covering her stomach.  She watches as the elf puts his other hand into the man’s hair and rolls his head forward, a grimace of pain on his face.  Then the marks flare brilliantly once, and he pitches forward slightly, knees loosening and hands gripping tighter.  The marks flare again, but more weakly this time, and he slows the thrusting of his hips, eventually to just a stutter of movement.  Finally he relinquishes his hold on the other man’s hair, a rather sardonic smile playing over his lips.  The man moves one hand around the elf’s leg, and as he moves his head away slightly from the elf’s hips, he uses his hand to pull deftly at the elf’s cock.  The elf smiles again, and says something to the man, who moves his face away from the elf’s body entirely and looks up into his face to reply.  The elf seems to point with his chin, glancing up quickly, and the human half-turns, a brief twist of his neck, a look redolent with pride and challenge.  And Cassandra’s heart stops in her chest, because the man looks so much like Anthony, even with the mask, that for a moment it _is_ him; the dark hair worn long to the shoulders, the slight hook of his nose, the sweep of his cheekbones in the low light.  As she is moving towards them she becomes conscious of the keening noise she is making, how wide her eyes have become, and the fact that under her layers of clothing she can feel the swollen wetness between her thighs, every step a titillation.  Then she stops and swallows, suddenly shy.  They are both looking at her now, a narrowed pair of grey eyes and an amused pair in black.  Cassandra feels her cheeks burn and turns quickly away, ducking into the nearest alcove.

 

She enters blindly, not even considering what she might be stumbling into.  From the corner of her eye, she notes movement, but then she sees a vacant stool just inside the door, and sinks into it gratefully.  She casts her eyes down, looking at her hands, and sees that they are shaking visibly, so she clutches them into fists, swallows again and raises her eyes, concentrating on the brocaded pattern on the back of the man sitting in front of her.  The woman in the next seat, dressed in bright yellow silk shot with red glances at Cassandra, and Cassandra turns her head at the same time; dark Antivan eyes shine behind her canary-yellow glazed porcelain mask, painted with red embrium flowers.  She smiles briefly at Cassandra and then her glassy gaze is back on the couple on the bed.  Cassandra continues to look at her for a moment, noting the slight sheen to the woman’s brow, and the way her hands are clasped tightly in the skirt of her dress.  Then she turns in her chair to see what everyone else in the room is looking at and sees a blonde, partly-naked woman on a raised platform; not a bed as Cassandra had initially thought, although it is draped in much the same fashion.  This particular alcove is decorated sumptuously, cloth of gold and dark red wall hangings matching the covers of the soft platform along one wall.  Cassandra can see, just by the platform, a small table with a variety of bottles and jars upon it, each in a beautiful vari-coloured crystal.  She looks more carefully at the woman on the platform and notes with a start that it is the Orlesian woman that she interrupted speaking to the Divine earlier in the evening, and wonders where her partner from before is.  

 

The woman is on all fours, her pearl grey underskirt and fine gunmetal and silver overskirts hiked high over her hips, garters and stockings on, but the top part of her dress has been unlaced sufficiently to allow her breasts to come free from her clothes.  Her breath is coming in shallow pants, but otherwise she is not making any noise, her body rocking back and forth in time to the thrusts of the pantsless red-haired man behind her.  Her face is turned to the side, facing her audience and she seems to be watching a bald man in the front row intently, though her eyes seem quite expressionless behind the grey enamel and silverite mask she wears.  As the man behind her begins to thrust into her more recklessly, causing his bird-wing mask to slip slightly, the bald man from the front row rises and walks two steps to then kneel by the platform at the woman’s head.  He strokes along her hair, following the line shaved into the side of it with his fingers, and she murmurs something to him in Orlesian that Cassandra doesn’t catch over the moaning of the man behind the woman in grey on the platform.  The bald man kneels next to her, kisses her lightly on a cheek, then she pushes up further on her elbows and kisses him deeply as the man behind her comes, crying out wordlessly and digging his fingers into the skin at her hips.  The bald man breaks the kiss and smiles, then asks, “Another?” When Cassandra sees his face in profile, she thinks to herself,  _ Ah, that’s where her partner is _ . The woman nods, and smiles slyly at him as he rises, tapping the gasping man on the shoulder roughly.  The red-haired man lifts his head and opens his eyes behind his mask as if awakened from a deep reverie.  He sighs shakily and pulls out, grinning and giving the woman’s bottom a slight squeeze as he does.  The bald man pushes his hand away, and Cassandra notes the clench of his jaw as he does so, but the small group of onlookers applaud politely, like they are at a tennis match.  Cassandra raises an eyebrow, but manages two claps before a replacement for the red-haired man takes up his station behind the blonde woman and the onlookers lean forward in anticipation of his performance.  

 

Halfway through the third man that she has witnessed take the Orlesian woman, Cassandra gets up.  The evening has waned into the early morning now, and not only is she exhausted, she is also fed up; frustrated in a way that she could not even begin to describe, even to herself.  Part of it is being witness to all this excess; sex being denuded of any of its charming aspects into vulgarity and powerplay.  She sighs and steps over a puddle of something on the floor, looking without expression at the woman asleep against an alcove wall which is shivering rhythmically from the forces asserted behind it.  She purses her lips slightly and decides it is time to leave.  

 

She is almost at the door of the Salon, walking toward it with her head bowed, concentrating on every step when a man clears his throat and says, “Excuse me, my lady?”  She turns to face him, opening her mouth to tell him to go away, too tired to be polite.  However, she is unbalanced by the sudden realisation that it is Anthony’s double who has addressed her.  He smiles smoothly at her expression; she knows she is gawping at him, and instantly she feels her cheeks grow warm under his gaze.  The white haired elf stands expressionless at his elbow.  An involuntary tremor passes through her body, makes her eyes draw closed.  He puts a hand out as if to steady her, and she grabs his forearm.  Then he speaks again, and the resemblance to Anthony is broken.  “My lady,” he says in a rough-hewn hybrid accent, a peculiar blend of Marcher drawl with a slight lingering Fereldan cadence to the vowels.  “My friend and I were wondering…”

“No,” she cuts him off instantly, hardly aware of what her mouth is saying.  Indeed, as soon as the word is out of her mouth, her body tells him she is lying, tightening her grip on his arm and drawing closer to him. “I… I’m sorry, I have to…”

“As you wish.  Still, it would be a great service to us both if you would perhaps, at least listen to our…” The elf grimaces slightly, and mutters something to the human, before he turns away to look at something else.  The man laughs and continues, “That is, to my request?”

Cassandra considers for a moment, then looks at her hand on his arm.  The nails are digging into the soft dark red weave, and she can feel the tension of the muscles underneath.  Then she looks up, over the man’s shoulder to the elf; he is looking directly at her now, the dark fabric of his mask illuminating his light eyes and lighter hair.  Scarcely aware of herself, Cassandra nods, and asks “What…” she swallows nervously and continues before she can quite lose her courage, “What was your request?”  The man says nothing, but gestures to one of the alcoves, the door standing open, like a promise.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a lot of talking (... meh) here.

The human sits on the bed, which miraculously seems to have been vacated some time ago; Cassandra is not sure how it has been done, but the whole room looks fresh.  It is decorated quite simply, white-washed walls and floors, a rug in a stylised Dwarven pattern in grey and green.  There are a cluster of lamps burning in each of the corners, giving the room a pleasant warm cast.  The bed is draped simply, in the same colours; the only nod to what it might be used for is its unusually large size; otherwise the room looks like any bedroom in any middle class dwelling.  The elf, worryingly, has closed the door behind her, and is now leaning on it, looking between herself and the human with a scowl on his face.  He sighs deeply, and tells the other man in a low growl, “Get on with it.”

The man smiles at him, rolling his eyes.  From his perch on the side of the bed, he looks up to where Cassandra stands before him, dark eyes glittering.  “I believe you can help us, my lady.  And perhaps… help yourself, also.”

Cassandra is silent, waiting for him to continue.  She dearly wants the elf to step away from the door, to clear her potential exit, but the larger part of her brain is just realising that she means to do whatever these two would ask of her, a fact her hindbrain seems to have decided some time ago.  The man’s smile widens, a slow, darkly sweet smile, and he asks her, “If I’m not mistaken, and I almost never am about such things,” the elf snorts, but the human continues without a glance in his direction, “you are able to perform a magic purge.”

Cassandra clenches her jaw, wondering exactly what the man knows.  Then she raises an eyebrow, though her stomach is fluttering dangerously, and says “I fail to see how that is relevant.”

“Ah.  More information required, I see.”  He looks to the elf, and says, “Darling, if you would?”

As Cassandra looks at him, the elf takes two steps reluctantly away from the door.  He looks at her appraisingly, and then raises his chin slightly, touching the marks along it and down his throat briefly with his gloved fingers before saying, “Lyrium.  Causes pain in the presence of magic.”

“Which, as you can understand, is rather a burden in a relationship like ours.”  The man sighs.  Cassandra finds herself warming to him slightly, though he clearly likes to talk. “Being a mage, my ambient magic is something that my darling can, and has, acquired a certain level of comfort with, over the years.  However, in certain… ah… extremities of arousal, shall we say, the level of ambient magic in my body overflows the boundaries of his tolerance.” He shrugs and the smile broadens again.  “Also, and while I can understand how your…” he waves a hand up and down, gesturing at her dress and mask, “aesthetic choices have drawn his eye, it seems that other aspects of your wonderful self have his full attention also.  So!”  The man rises quickly, and takes a deep breath.  Cassandra rubs one hand down her arm, and the man looks at her briefly, then the elf, then back to her again before asking, “My proposition is this; I would like my darling to be able to have a fully satisfactory sexual experience.  That is, no pain, no distractions.  I would like him to have that experience while I am at least somewhere in the vicinity.  And while I commend his choice in you,” he grins wryly at the elf, who seems almost shy now, “You do not conform to my own taste, though you have caught his imagination quite firmly.  If you are willing, it would be…”

“Yes.” Cassandra blurts, “Yes, I’ll do it, but…” she has to stop speaking, she is so wracked with sudden nerves.  Then she steels herself to say what she wants, “But I want you to make lo-” she pauses, changes her choice of wording, “... I want you to fuck him while he is fucking me.  Is that acceptable?”  She looks between them, steadily now that she has made her demands known.  The human is grinning openly; he nods quickly and looks to his partner.  The elf looks at Cassandra for some time, then to the human, and smiles slightly before nodding also.  

 

She looks at the elf more closely, concern creasing her brow, and asks him, with her usual lack of subtlety, “Does it hurt during sex, or only when you come?  Because I’m not sure I can maintain the purge for that long.”  She bites her lip, and sees the elf think for a moment before he tells her, “Only when I come.  But…” he looks at the human, “will it hurt you?  This purge?”

“No…” the human starts to say, and then looks at Cassandra, “...at least, I don’t think so?”

She nods quickly, and says “I don’t have to use a full smite.” She smirks as she wonders what Lord Seeker Lambert would think of this conversation, “Just… a little around the edges.  Soften the magical effect, not turn it off entirely.”  She pauses, considering; then offers, “I can show you, if you like?  To see if it will work?  I mean, it could very well make things worse.  You’ll need to take your gloves off.”

 

He does so, and she holds out a hand to him.  The elf takes it, his expression unchanged.  She smiles gently, and easily calls up a reservoir of concentration, accessing that part of her mind which allows her to perform the necessary magic.  She hears the elf take a sharp breath in, and looks at him to see the lines of exposed lyrium on the surface of his skin fade sharply.  She gestures to the man to take the elf’s other hand, and he does, smiling slightly.  “Do you feel anything?” she asks, and he shakes his head and laughs, “Just a little tickling.  Nothing unpleasant.”  He laughs again, takes his hand from the elf’s and looks at it, then looks at Cassandra.  “Well.  If I’d have known a magic purge could feel like that, I might have submitted to the Templars long ago.”

Cassandra snorts and rolls her eyes, then relinquishes the elf’s hand.  He clings to hers for a moment longer, and then sighs, and the lyrium lights up again.  “The Templars are not so subtle.  They are bludgeons at high noon.  We are the blade in the dark.”

The mage raises an eyebrow, and inclines his head, “Poetically put, my lady.  But now, if you would turn around for me?”  Cassandra’s heart leaps in her chest, and her stomach drops, but she acquiesces silently.  She feels his fingers begin to pull at the long row of ribbons down her spine, feels the dress beginning to loosen around her shoulders.  She thinks of Regalyan momentarily, wonders what he would say if he knew what she was about to do, and she almost tells the mage to stop.  But then she looks at the elf standing in front of her, and she sees the expression on his face change from closed and shy to one of an almost fearful desire.  She casts her eyes down, and the dress slips further off her shoulders.  A few more ribbons come undone, and down the dress slips, further still, until it falls away entirely, leaving the top of the chemise and corset underneath exposed.  Cassandra swallows, still not daring to look at the elf as the man at her back continues to undo the bows lacing her dress together.  

 

Finally, the dress sags away from her body, and the mage deftly undoes the lacing on the petticoat, which Cassandra allows to drop to the floor, before peeling the sleeves of the dress away from her arms with shaking fingers.  Her breathing is rapid, panting, and it has nothing to do with the corset.  She stands in the middle of her puddled garments, feeling both men’s gazes upon her; she thinks for a moment that what she feels is fear, but then realises that although there is an element of uncertainty to it, she has never been so aroused in all her life.  Her nipples, taut under the light satin, brush against the fabric with a sensation which could almost be torment if it didn’t send a brief, pulsing shiver through her entire body.  She shifts her position slightly, from one foot to the other, and notes with a smile the graze of wetness at the juncture of her thighs.  As gracefully as she can manage, she steps out of her shoes, and then steps onto the discarded skirts at her feet - they spread in a corona of darkness around her, and she knows it would be impossible to try and leap over them without making an idiot of herself.  As quick as she can in her bare feet, she is off again, onto the stone floor, unsteady on her tiptoes.  She looks up and finds that she has inadvertently stepped almost right into the elf.  Her eyes widen, and she realises a moment too late that she is about to stumble.  Before she does, his hands are around her waist, pulling her toward him.  “Steady,” he says, and then their eyes meet for a moment and a chord of understanding seems to pass between them.  Her lips part as if she is about to speak, but then he smiles very slightly at her, and raises a hand to slide a fingernail gently from under her earlobe down her neck to her breast.  He cups it through the silk, rubs his thumb over the stiff nipple and she gives a little sigh.  She steps closer to him, not quite touching yet, and moves her hands up the front of his jacket, where she begins, a trifle clumsily, to undo the buckles, pulling the cloth aside as she does, exposing the flesh underneath.  

 

Once she has finished with the buckles, he has to remove his hands from her breasts to pull them out of the sleeves.  Quickly, he shucks the jacket off, and then steps backward to pull his boots off as well, bare feet on the stone floor.  Then he steps closer to her again, so that the entire length of his body is pressed firmly up against hers, but not before she has seen the extent of the lyrium pattern over his chest and arms.  Her brow creases as she thinks simultaneously  it must hurt so much and  is it truly everywhere on him?  His hands slip around her back to her arse, pulling her even tighter against him.  She can feel the hardness of his cock, feel it pulse slightly with the quickening rhythm of his heartbeat, and her expression of concentration softens.  The mage has removed his bracer and jacket while idly watching them from the bed, where he had sat after undoing Cassandra’s dress.  As the elf begins to knead the flesh of her buttocks, he stands and steps a little closer to them to whisper an instruction into Cassandra’s ear.  She nods, sliding her hands over the elf’s back and down to the top of his leggings.  Her fingers follow the line of leather around his hips and she moves her own away slightly so that she can begin to unlace the leggings at the front.  The elf groans slightly, dips his head into her neck and traces a line along the tendon from the top of her jaw down to her clavicle with his tongue.  The mage has slipped behind him, and when Cassandra has finished the unlacing she smiles a little at the man and he begins to wriggle the tight leather over the elf’s hips.  “You and your fucking tight pants…” she thinks she hears the mage mutter, but the elf merely smiles into her neck and says nothing.  She feels his mouth open over the cusp of her throat, where the muscle of her shoulder begins, and he spreads his tongue across her skin in a warm, wet arc.  He continues to lick her, long swipes of his tongue against her flesh, as he raises one foot, then the next for the mage behind him to pull the leggings off.  Then he bites, hard enough for her to gasp and then almost swoon against him with the pleasurable bruised sensation of it.  In response, she traces her very fingertips along his belly, curling her fingers into the line of hair underneath his navel to pull on it briefly, then fluttering them teasingly along and down, until she is following the line of his cock.  This she merely grazes with the very tips of her fingernails, tracing along and back, up and down, hardly touching it at all.  Cassandra can hear wet kissing noises from behind him as he pants hot breath into her ear, and then rasps, “Don’t, don’t tease”. Then he draws a breath sharply in as she grasps his cock roughly in her fist, just under the head.  She purrs quietly into his ear, “Is this better?” as she manipulates her hand along the shaft, shifting her grip instinctively from tight to looser.  

 

Nodding, he fumbles at the laces on her corset, and then lifts his head to look for the mage.  “A little help?” he asks the other man over his shoulder.  The kissing noises stop and he says irritably, “I thought I was helping.”  Then he rises with a sigh and walks around the two of them.  He looks at the lacing for a moment and then his arms go around Cassandra’s waist over the elf’s and he asks, “Can I cut them?” into her ear.  She is too far gone to care about anything else at the moment, concentrating as she is on the elf’s hands and lips, his teeth and tongue roving over her skin, as well as keeping the rhythm of her hand on him, so she just nods her assent.  “In.. ugh, in my boot, the left one,” the elf tells the human, and he strides over, retrieving a small dagger with no crossguard, just blade and handle, from the interior sheath.  Then he comes back, standing behind Cassandra, and slips the blade carefully under the lacings, drawing it up her back.  The steel must be extremely sharp, because the binding laces fall apart very quickly, and Cassandra takes a deep, sweet lungful of the smell of the elf’s hair as she feels the corset fall off her.  Shakily, she exhales, then turns to the human, smiling at him.  He smiles back at her and strokes his fingers along the elf’s shoulder, down his arm to his hand.  This he begins to pull, slowly but insistently, over to the bed.

 

Cassandra cannot help herself - she is as fascinated with the mechanics of how they will arrange themselves as she is aroused by the idea.  This situation, three of them in one bed, is something she has only read about once, and then the writing was more focussed on the various sensations than how things actually worked.  She watches the two men kissing, the elf’s hand on the human’s stiff cock through his smallclothes, listening to the small moans the mage emits as he claws the fingers of one hand through the elf’s hair, tugging on it, while the other has curled around the elf’s dick and is pulling it through his fist in a slow but insistent rhythm.  Her shoulders hunch a little as she feels nervousness steal over her again, its clammy touch damping her desire.  Regalyan is the only other man she has ever had sex with, and even that has been hurried, furtive and irregular; both of them with duties they must attend to elsewhere, and very few places that they can indulge with absolute privacy.  Desperately, she wonders if it is too late to back out, and steals a glance at the door.  The mage looks at her sidelong, his mouth locked on the elf’s, and he takes his hand from the elf’s hair to her shoulder, squeezing it briefly, reassuringly.  Cassandra looks at him, and there must be something in her face behind the mask which tells him of her concerns, because he breaks the kiss and looks at her properly for a moment.  “Having second thoughts?” he asks quietly, as the elf nuzzles into his neck, and then he looks up sharply at her as well, the three of them arranged in a triangle on the large bed, downy coverlet underneath.  She briefly considers lying, but then sighs and says, “Yes.  I am… not at all experienced in this kind of thing.”

 

The human opens his mouth to reply, but the elf beats him to it.  “You seem to know what you want, at least,” he tells her.  “I was told once that… that happiness wouldn’t kill me.  That it was alright, once in a while.”  He lowers his head and leans it on the mage’s naked shoulder, smiling briefly at the memory, and then growing serious.  “I also said that I didn’t know how to start again.  But you learn, slowly - how to be happy, how to start again.  The only way you can learn though,” and he raises his head, looking  at the mage, almost with apology in his eyes, “is by trying.”  The mage grins at him and brushes a hand over his cheek, then tells her, “What he means to say is, everyone has to start somewhere.  Don’t let your lack of experience stand in the way of a good time, my lady.  Or…” he looks down at his own dick, considerably wilted by all this conversation, “What might be a perfectly average time, at least for one of you.”  Cassandra laughs then, and the nervousness she has been feeling flies away at the sound of it.  “Alright,” she tells them, “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“Far better to say something now, than regret it later.”  The mage looks at the elf and grins wolfishly at him, “You know, she might be able to save you a bit of pain, but she can’t save your beautiful arse from me.”

“As if I would try,” Cassandra says, surprising even herself with the easy way she makes the joke.  And then, as the elf moves forward, toward her, she reclines on the bed and holds her arms out to him.


	6. Chapter 6

He sits back on his haunches between her legs, tongue on the point of his incisor, looking at her thoughtfully.  She looks back at him for what seems an age, until her impatience gets the better of her and she asks, “What?  What is it?”  The mage glances over the elf’s shoulder and then looks into his face in profile - the elf still hasn’t said anything - then smirks as he asks, “You want to rip her pretty silk thing, don’t you?” He kisses the elf’s shoulder and grins at Cassandra over it as she looks at the elf in frank astonishment.  She waits for a moment, watching to see if he will make a move to do or say anything.  When nothing is forthcoming, she snorts a little and takes hold of a handful of ivory silk, pulling her hands quickly away from each other.  The fine silk goes taut, momentarily straining, and then begins to rend.  As soon as it does, she stops tearing, and holds her hands out for the elf’s.  The mage chuckles and looks at the elf again, saying “Look, she’s even started it for you…”  The elf elbows him, not ungently, and states in a rather chagrined tone, “I can see that.  Just leave what goes on up here to me, alright?  Fasta vass, you’re worse than Merrill tonight.”

The mage chuckles again, and says “Alright, alright!  Just stop thinking so much…”

“One of us has to,” is the retort, and then the elf sighs and leans forward a little, one hand on her knee.  The mage has scrambled over to the small table on the other side of the bed, where he is proceeding to unscrew jars and open bottles, sniffing and poking at the contents like a curious child.  The elf growls quietly to Cassandra, “I’m sorry about him - we are quite the pair.  Can’t shut him up, can’t get a word out of me.”  He pauses and says haltingly, “I will try though.  To ask you.  About… things that I want.”  She tries a reassuring smile, and tells him, “It’s fine.  I’m… a bit the same, really. About the talking.  But… you know, you don’t, you don’t have to ask.”  She lowers her eyes to the silk still covering her stomach, and then returns them to his face as she says, “It’s...nice… that you do.  But I’d rather you just,” she pauses, trying to collect her thoughts, trying to find a phrase that won’t seem melodramatic or virginal, “you just do it.  What it is that you want.”  The elf raises an eyebrow, and almost says something, then shrugs his shoulders.  His eyes behind the mask narrow, and his hands drift forward, hovering over her thighs, her hips, her stomach and rib cage.  He takes a handful of off-white silk in each hand and tears quickly, ripping the chemise clear down the middle, exposing her; Cassandra watches his face carefully as a tiny smile flickers over his lips.  

 

His hands immediately go to her breasts.  Cassandra feels, as he gently pulls and squeezes, a long ridge of callous along each palm.  She blinks as she realises he must be a warrior of some description, as she has a similar ridge on her own right hand.   _Two handed fighter_ , she thinks and then has to concentrate on his touch again as her mind immediately begins preparing questions about weapon weight and preference, stances and tactics.  She watches him bend toward her, using one hand to balance on the bed as he rubs his cheek into the side of her breast, pushing the pliable flesh in toward the centre of her chest.  He continues the arc of motion, rubbing the tip of his nose and his lips against her nipple for a moment, and she arches ever so slightly up and gasps, closing her eyes briefly.  Before she opens them again, she feels his other hand begin moving off her breast and down her body, tickling over ribs, sliding over her stomach.  When his fingers reach the fabric of her smallclothes, he catches her nipple lightly between his teeth and she exhales slowly, unconsciously widening her legs still further.  Slowly, his hand wanders down between her thighs to stroke over the wet cotton, using his thumb-nail gently on her clit over the material.  She moans, biting her lip, and her eyes half-close again as she feels his tongue begin to move in short spirals down her ribs, following the path of his hand.

 

Cassandra shudders, fingers in his hair as he pulls the soaked cloth aside to make way for his tongue.  This is the first time that she has ever felt a man’s mouth on her, and she wars internally with her shyness and her desire.  As he laps along the sensitive skin and then curls his tongue over her clit, her desire wins, and she claws her fingernails across his scalp, crying out as she arcs backwards into the mattress, the sensation is so powerful.  The elf persists though, lapping in further, fingers holding the lips apart.  She pulls herself down slightly, so his tongue penetrates further, and she whimpers as he moves it up and out, to her clit again, making loops and swirls around it. The mage says something in a low voice, and the elf grunts then gives a low, hitching moan of his own.  His mouth pauses on Cassandra, and he begins to rock his body slightly backward and forward in a gentle, almost tidal rhythm.  His breath is hot on her as he sighs and the mage mutters something that Cassandra does not catch.  The elf says into her, “Yes. More.” and the vowels draw themselves out to become a long moan.  As much as Cassandra is enjoying even the feel of him breathing against her wet cunt, she cannot resist her curiosity, and sits up a little, leaning back on her elbows.  The elf’s eyes are closed, frowning in concentration, but he opens them languidly when he feels her position shift.  She smiles at him and moves away, saying as she does “I want to watch for a moment.”  She slides her legs carefully out from around his elbows and he lets her smallclothes go as his eyes fall closed again.  She crawls off the bed, sliding the rent chemise off before she rises and then drops it, useless, on the floor.  As she gets up, she pulls the cords at the side of her smallclothes and pushes them down, stepping out of them as she walks the two paces to where she can see what the mage is doing.  As she watches, he slides his first and second fingers, greasy with something he has located in one of the jars on the small table, back into the elf, who arches back into his hand, panting slightly.  His other hand is between the elfs legs, rubbing his thumb along the elf’s shaft, drawing a line of moisture back from the head with every stroke.  The mage glances quickly behind him to where Cassandra stands, and his lips pull back from his teeth, almost a leer.  He clears his throat quietly and suggests, “I could use a hand here.”  Then he tips his head, using it to encourage her over to him.  She walks forward and puts her knees on the edge of the bed, beginning to reach for his cock.  He shakes his head and says “Him, not me.”  Her hand stops and she pulls it back, curing the fingers under as she does.  Blinking quickly, and feeling a little affronted, she then considers a moment and shifts herself along the bed.  She puts her own hand over the mages, taking up his rhythm on the elf as he takes his hand away and begins working at his own erection.  Cassandra watches him from the corner of her eye as his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, eyes losing focus.  He huffs out a breath, the elf still rocking back and forth over his hand, so that Cassandra only really needs to encircle him with her own hand.  She watches the two men and then realises that the light within the elf's markings are beginning to glow.  With her hand on his cock slowing its rhythm as she concentrates again, she sends a little flow of entropic energy out, feels the blow-back of the magical substance under his skin as the positive energy within it falls into the black hole she has created.  The elf gasps and cries out; Cassandra and the mage both look at him, stopping their motions completely in their concern he has been hurt, but the lines are almost gone from under his skin, looking more like old scars than anything else.  He breathes a string of foreign-sounding words, all hissing sibilants and chopping consonants, and his hips jerk back more aggressively into the mages hand.  Cassandra thinks she understands what this means, and she loosens her grip on him still further, removing her hand entirely before bending down to whisper, right in his ear, “Slow down; I want you inside me.”  His eyes shut tighter under his mask at the sound of her voice - there must be something that irritates him in the feel of it over his skin, because he raises one hand and wrenches it off his face, flinging it away from him.  Then his eyes open and he looks to Cassandra, nodding quickly.  As she moves around him and climbs swiftly back onto the bed, he raises himself off his elbows, allowing her to wriggle on her back underneath him, legs spread.  As he does this, the mage behind him rises up on his knees as well, squeezing one hand into the flesh at the elf’s hip.  The expression in his dark eyes is so fierce that Cassandra is extra-careful not to even brush him with her leg as she maneuvers under the elf - she senses what it must cost him to have another person, and one he is not even attracted to at that, here, taking his lovers attention.  

 

“Ugh, wait; oh, wait a moment,” the elf mutters.  In one smooth motion, he has twisted at the waist, the arm closest to the mage going around the other man’s waist awkwardly, the other hand on his shoulder.  “Go slowly, my heart.”  Cassandra can’t see his face properly, but she feels the smile in his voice when he says, “I want this to last as long as it can.”  The mage kisses him quickly and murmurs, “Your wish is my command, my love.”  He whispers something in the elf’s ear and then they smile at each other.  Cassandra cannot help but smile at the two of them then, so in love they seem.  Then the elf twists back around to face her, and he gestures her toward him, and says, “Pillow?”  For a moment, Cassandra just looks at him blankly, then she realises that, yes, she does know what that is, and he must need it for something, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked.  She feels over her head, finds one, hands it to him wordlessly.  As she wriggles further down the bed, he comes forward slightly, tucking his bent knees under her thighs, then says, “Hips up.”  She lifts her ass off the mattress, and he tucks the pillow under it.  Then he looks her up and down, that strange, almost harsh desire back in his eyes, and touches her slit, the tips of his fingers first just grazing along the lips, then questing beyond.  Cassandra holds her breath, worried that she will not be ready, but when he slips his first two fingers inside her easily, a short keening wail escapes her, and she claps her hands over her mouth, eyes widening behind her mask.  It seems, in that moment, she can feel everything and nothing; the heat of her breath inside her body, the rhythm of their three hearts, the rasp of the sheets under her back.  And none of it means anything, because this elf, _this elf_ , oh Maker, he makes her feel, makes her feel like… and then his fingers are gone, and he is leaning forward, holding himself in his fist and then he is inside her and she gasps through her fingers, arching up, toward him.  He does not move, instead allowing her to find a rhythm.  She feels the mage’s weight shift on the bed, and then the elf bites his lip against a choked groan.  He moves then, a short thrust, and Cassandra feels the echo of the mage’s movement behind him.  Her hands are still over her mouth, and she pants through them, feels her jaw quivering.  The muscles in her thighs and abdomen tense as a luscious, dull ache of pleasure begins to build within her.  There is, however, a part of her mind which is on the task at hand; part of her mind which will not allow her eyes to close, needing to watch the elf’s markings closely.  This part of her mind is glad that she has had the second opportunity to practice how much force she needs to exert against the magic under the elf’s skin - when he is fully aroused, she needed quite a bit more assertion to begin to quell it.  

 

It seems like minutes, or it could be hours later, but Cassandra finds that each driving thrust from the elf is pushing the breath right out of her, leaving her scarcely time to pull more air into her body.  Always, just on his withdrawal there is the additional motion of the mage at his back, almost wilfully against the elf’s rhythm.  She moans and twists as another orgasm lurches through her, trampling through her body, eyelids flickering closed for a moment before flying open again.  The elf is beginning to pitch his thrusts lower, driving deeper into her with every successive motion.  With her hand on her stomach, she can feel him within her, and the thought alone is enough to nearly tip her over the edge again.  His hair falls over his forehead, into his eyes and she brushes it back without thinking, pushing it behind his ear.  “Fenris, I can’t…” the mage says, and then Cassandra hears a string of colourful expletives and his measured movements surge to a sudden crescendo.  Every slam of the mage’s hips into the elf’s buttocks forces a gasping grunt from him, and in turn drives his hips harder and faster into her. The brands over his flesh begin to pulse and she responds with more purge.  The elf groans and rolls his head forward; she heightens the purge further - it is not true, what she had told them earlier, this is as close to a full smite as it gets without actually being one.  The white blare of the brands fades to a dull grey and then flickers out completely.  As soon as they do, he comes violently, fisting his hands into the sheets at either side of her ribs and hissing, then crying out, “Asha! Salvum, oh salvum ir!”  He falls forward, onto her, bringing the mage with him as he shudders.  Cassandra holds the purge as long as she can; she wants to fade it, but in the end she has to just drop it, as her limited mana is completely taxed.  Finally the elf pushes up, shakily and whispers, “Habeo lathbora viran. Ma serannas, femina.  Thank you.” He sighs and pushes himself up further as the mage behind him groans, “Holy Maker, why do I suddenly feel like I ate a nest of giant spiders?”

 

Cassandra barks laughter - truly, this mage has an unprecedented gift for spoiling the moment.  She rubs a sweating hand over her face, pulling it away to look at it when she encounters the ridges and etchings on her mask.  She sighs and admits, “I had to use a lot more purge than I’d thought.  I’m sorry if it took you by surprise.”  She sighs again, exhausted, and the elf looks at her, a strange blend of emotions on his face.  He winces a little as the mage withdraws, and when the mage rocks back and begins shuffling on his knees to the nightstand, the elf pitches himself up onto his knees.  He looks down, holding onto himself, pulling slowly out of Cassandra.  She almost asks him to wait, to stay a moment longer, but she cannot begin to find the right words until he is gone.

 

“Aha!  Trust the Chantry to think of everything!” the mage crows, brandishing a pile of soft cloth squares.  “And a washbasin too.  Lucky for us; we’re none of us wearing the colours for cum stains.”  He yawns bone-crackingly and then looks very seriously at the elf, “I really didn’t want to have to wipe myself off on your new jacket.”  Cassandra laughs as the elf groans and holds his hand out for a cloth.  Cassandra steps off the bed, looking for her smallclothes.  She can feel the elf’s seed begin to trickle down her thigh as she bends to pick them up, so she picks up the ripped chemise as well, holding it to herself - it is not good for much else now.  She laughs a little to herself, wondering how on earth she will explain the damage to her clothes to Leliana, and then shrugs, knowing that her friend will not even ask.  

 

She sits on the edge of the bed a few moments later, holding the ruined corset.  The laces are completely unusable, and there is no way she will get back into her dress without it.  She feels a warm hand on her shoulder and the mage sits next to her.  “It’s fucked, isn’t it?”

She arches an eyebrow, mouth curling in a small smile, “It’s not the only thing.”

He smirks right back at her and says, “Touché, my lady.  My plan?  We have a little nap,” he pauses, covering his mouth with his hand as he yawns again, “and figure it out later.”

“That’s not much of a plan.”

“Planning has never been my strong suit. But things usually work out for the best.  Look at tonight!  Who would have guessed we’d meet…” He yawns again, hugely, and says through it, “such a lovely thing as yourself?  Ugh…”  He flops backward on the bed, arms outstretched, “I’m tired.  Fenny, come cuddle me.”

The elf frowns over his shoulder at the mage, “No names, remember?”

“Fenny… isn’t… your… name…” the mage murmurs sleepily, eyes drifting closed.  Cassandra rises, and he simply pulls his legs up and rolls over, into a loose foetal position, hands curled loosely, breathing deepening into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're interested, dear reader, here is a translation of what Fenris says.  
> "Asha! Salvum, oh salvum ir!": "Woman! Save, oh save me!"  
> "Habeo lathbora viran. Ma serannas, femina.": "I have what I thought I could never have. Thank you, my lady."
> 
> It's a horrid conglomerate of elven and Tevene (my own made-up Tevene, mostly mangled Latin), but for posterity, that's what it is. I sorta head-canon that Merrill has worn him down over the years and has been teaching him a bit of Elvish when he's not too prickly with her (so, not very often). And because my Hawke was kind of a dick, and Fenny was what I used to call poor Fenris... that's what he'll always be to me.
> 
> Thank you, you lovely things for your kudoses - not long to go now, and the party's over.


	7. Chapter 7

The elf looks at the sleeping man, a mixture of amusement and irritation on his face.  “I always envy him that,” he tells Cassandra, “He falls asleep so easily.”

She smiles and asks, “And you don’t?”  He shakes his head, “No.  Years of practise.”  He laughs a little grimly.  She stoops to pick up her dress, wondering how she will get back to her rooms if she cannot make it cover her without the restraint of the corset.  “I know what you mean, I think.  I can’t remember the last time I slept the whole night through.”  She pulls the sleeves over her arms, and then tries to reach around herself to begin tying the ribbons.  Wordlessly, he circles the bed and kneels at her back, beginning at the bottom of the train.  “Thank you,” she tells him over her shoulder, and he murmurs, “It’s nothing.”

 

When he reaches about the level of her mid-thigh, she feels his hands pause, and he says, “If I might ask you something?”  Cassandra nods, then qualifies it with “You can ask.  I suppose I may not answer.”

“That’s fair.” He pauses again, then, “How did you learn to perform a purge, if you are not a Templar?  Is it some kind of magic?  Are you a mage?”

She bristles for a moment and says, “That’s three questions.”  She sighs, hoping that there is no harm in telling him at least a portion of the truth.  “No, I am not a Templar.  I am part of a different Order, but we develop our powers without lyrium; the same rough skill sets, just more... Potent, developed, than you would find in a Templar.  You have probably not heard of us." She thinks for a moment about the second part of his question, then nods.  "It is a kind of magic, I suppose, smiting.  But it is developed through concentration and focus rather than inherent magical ability.  So no.  I am not a mage.”  She folds her arms and says again, “No.”

He is silent for a moment, then says, “I am sorry.  I did not mean to offend you.”

“No offence was taken.”  She sighs and says, “I suppose I still find it hard to trust mages.  Even after all this time.”  She knows she is veering dangerously close to having to tell the story of Anthony’s death to this stranger, and she knows it will only upset her and confuse him.  So she laughs artificially and says, “Despite taking one for a lover.”

He tugs, hard, at the ribbon at the small of her back, trying to obtain enough length to tie it together.  “It seems that we are more alike than I had considered, my lady.”  He grimaces, finally succeeding in tying the ribbons together, and then tells her, “I think that is as far as they will go.”  

 

Cassandra turns, and raises her eyebrows, smoothing the fabric over her stomach.  The neck of the dress still sags a little, but it will at least allow her to obtain her quarters without too much attention.  “Thank you.  If I might ask you a question?” She smiles at him, “Or three?”

He nods, “It is only fair.”

“If you do consider it hard to trust mages, if we are truly as alike as I too suspect, then… how…”

“How did I end up with one?” He puts the point of his tongue on the tip of his incisor, eyes sliding to the wall as he thinks, and then shrugs and says, “To be honest, some days I’m not sure myself.  I know that he has…” he pauses, trying to frame the phrase correctly, “...he has saved me from myself in more ways than one.  I know that I am not with him because I feel that I owe him… but I know that I do.”  She nods, “I think I understand what you mean.  With Gal - that is to say, with my lover - I  do  love him.  And I owe him so much - my station, my honour, even my life.”  In her minds eye she looks at Regalyan again in the darkness, sees his delighted expression after she had kissed his cheek as they are waiting to be honoured by the Divine;  she hears his voice crying out to alert her to the presence of their saviors as she stares at the executioners block.  “And yet… and yet…”  she sniffs quietly and looks away, “I can never trust him, not fully.  Every mage has the potential for corruption.”

He nods, a sad expression on his face, then glances at the man on the bed.  His expression shifts as he gazes at the man, rising from sadness into one of a fierce, protective love.  Without thinking, Cassandra embraces the elf, and he stiffens slightly, before raising his arms to embrace her in return.  She smiles at him, and nods, before breaking the embrace and walking to the door.

 

Cassandra reaches her quarters by way of back passages and winding staircases.  It seems to be still early in the morning - there are servants using the passages, but she seems to have timed it well between the very early morning rush to light fires and clean, and the activity surrounding breakfast.  She sighs as she crosses the threshold of her room, and closes the door, immediately beginning to pull at the ribbons again to denude herself of the dress and shoes.  The fabric is worn, grubby and wrinkled from sitting puddled on the floor for such a long time.  She looks at it, then crosses the room to a chest.  Kneeling in just her smallclothes, she folds the dress carefully, smoothing the stained cloth, and then opens the chest.  In here are her very few personal possessions; a locket of their Mother’s, a wooden sword Anthony had made for her when he was ten and she was three, a high dragon’s tooth her father had given her, the ceremonial robes of her Vigil.  She puts the dress inside, with the shoes and mask on top, and closes the lid, thinking  here is the souvenir of a night of madness .  Then she rises, and rings the bell for a servant to fill her bath.

 

It is later the same day when there is a knock at Cassandra’s office door.  Justinina’s Conclave is still three months away, but there are many facets still to put into place, and Cassandra is writing yet another letter to the Champion of Kirkwall, trying to argue with Hawke about taking up the role of Inquisitor, knowing the letter will go unanswered, just like the last three.  She sighs, puts a cross through a t, and calls “Enter”.  A boy, not more than eight, opens the office door, dressed in the red and grey of a Templar recruit.  “Madam Seeker, I have a message for you from the White Spire.”

She looks up at him and holds her hand out across the desk for the message.  “Enchanter Regalyan said I was to wait for your reply, ma’am.”

“Alright, recruit.”  Cassandra swallows, wondering what the message will be, hoping her shaking hand is not as evident as she fears.  “Wait outside, if you please.”  As the boy leaves, Cassandra breaks the seal, a small blob of white wax.  She reads:

 

> Seeker Pentaghast,
> 
> I’ll be in the Chantry late this afternoon on other 
> 
> business.  May I come and visit with you?  I have
> 
> something to tell you.  You can tell the recruit your 
> 
> answer - either way, I’ll understand.  I know you 
> 
> have a lot of work to do.  
> 
>                      Enchanter D’Marcall.

 

As always, the tone of his note is formal.  They have been at pains to keep their relationship as quiet as possible, as Cassandra is still bound by the rules of her Order which restrict fraternisation.  Officially, at least as far as Cassandra is aware, the only person that knows about it is Leliana.  Cassandra mulls over her reply, wanting to say no, partly from the annoyance that still lingers after their argument of a few days prior, partly over her feelings of guilt at her actions of the previous night.  Absently, she rubs the small bruise of the elf’s bite mark between her shoulder and neck, under her clothes.  Finally, her curiosity and her desire to see him win out, and she rises to tell the recruit her answer.

 

Galyan walks toward her, through the courtyard, across the pale stones.  His dark hair is swept back from his face as per usual, green eyes glittering with suppressed laughter, though the rest of his face is serious, professional.  “Seeker Pentaghast,” he greets her, and then his eyes become concerned as he tells her, “You cannot imagine what a relief it was to get your answer.  Is there somewhere we might speak?”

“Certainly, Enchanter.”  Her expression is serene, belying the fact that her stomach is in knots.  “If you’ll follow me?”

 

When they reach her office, Cassandra ushers Galyan inside and then closes the door behind them.  As soon as they are alone, Galyan steps toward her, taking her in his arms, murmuring into her neck, above the bruised flesh, “I’m so sorry, bien-aimée, I was utterly out of line the other day.  Can you forgive me?”  She smiles a little, but it is strained, and she is glad that he cannot see it.  “Of course,” she mutters back, thinking  _ oh Maker, help me, how do I tell him?  _ “It is forgotten.”  She sighs, and he seems to sense her unsaid words, the weight of her guilt.  He pulls back a little, looking carefully at her face, studying her as his brow creases in concern.  She feels like he is reading her mind, and opens her mouth to confess it all when he asks, “Is it?”  He sighs harshly, and pulls back still further.  “I, oh Galyan, I…” is all Cassandra manages before he cups her jaw, putting his thumb over her lips, smiling a little at her, and says, “Cassandra, I fear I must annoy you further.  I’ve been selected as one of the representatives of the Spire, it looks like I’ll be going with you after all.”  He frowns worriedly, and tells her, eyes askance, “After we… spoke… the other day, I talked to the Grand Enchanter, asked to be considered.  She said she would consider it, but all yesterday I thought and thought, and was on my way to see her last night to rescind my offer when I was told that she’d accepted me as part of the delegation.”  He pauses, looks into her face.  “If you really don’t want me there, I’ll tell her that I won’t go.”

 

Cassandra pulls his hand gently away from her face, her thoughts in a whirl.  “I, no, Galyan, that’s wonderful.  They’ve seen your promise, that’s a real honour.”  She embraces him, feeling his shoulders sag a little with relief, and he rubs a hand along her back.  Putting her face against his chest, she tells him quietly, “I love you.”  He chuckles a little, strokes her hair and squeezes her waist, then kisses the top of her head.  “Oh Cassandra - I love you, too.  I’m so glad you’ve forgiven me.”  And Cassandra’s smile dies on her face as Galyan laughs again in his relief.    



End file.
